


Storytelling

by ProseApothecary



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Stand-Up, Two Middle-Aged Men Being Bad Communicators, a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: Like making a New Year’s Resolution,Richie types.At 12 am, when your body feels like it’s made of knives, you decide you’re going to start going to yoga. And then 6 am comes, and your bed is safer and more comfortable than it’s ever been.And the yogi doesn’t call you. And you don’t call him. And you start wondering if he hates you; or if he’s busy trying out positions with other people. And you’re not sure if he’s actually even a yogi, because he’s never commented on your form, and it’s possible that he’s actually a total yogaphobe. Besides; growing up, the only yoga lessons you got were on the corpse pose, so you seriously doubt you’re a good candidate for partner yoga anyway.And your attempts at writing stand-up get fucking bleak, because you can’t stop thinking about your yogi, and maybe you should just call him already. Or face the prospect that all this yoga suppression is going to explode in some weird, unhealthy way. Like hot yoga.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie bleeds. And Richie promises himself that he’s going to tell him everything. As soon as he opens his eyes.

Eddie lies in a hospital bed, wires feeding into him, and Richie promises himself that he’s not going to let him go again.

Eddie wakes up. Starts talking about his job, and Myra, and _responsibilities_. And Richie doesn’t say a fucking thing.

Eddie walks. And Richie lets him go.

_Like making a New Year’s Resolution_ , Richie types. _At 12 am, when your body feels like it’s made of knives, you decide you’re going to start going to yoga. And then 6 am comes, and your bed is safer and more comfortable than it’s ever been._

_And the yogi doesn’t call you. And you don’t call him. And you start wondering if he hates you; or if he’s busy trying out positions with other people. And you’re not sure if he’s actually even a yogi, because he’s never commented on your form, and it’s possible that he’s actually a total yogaphobe. Besides; growing up, the only yoga lessons you got were on the corpse pose, so you seriously doubt you’re a good candidate for partner yoga anyway._

_And your attempts at writing stand-up get fucking bleak, because you can’t stop thinking about your yogi, and maybe you should just call him already. Or face the prospect that all this yoga suppression is going to explode in some weird, unhealthy way. Like hot yoga._

Richie groans, jams his hand on the backspace key, and picks up his phone.

“Rich? Are you ok? What’s happening?” Eddie’s voice is bleary and faint and utterly perfect.

Richie blinks. “I’m fine. Why?”

“…Why? It’s 3 a-fucking-m.”

Richie looks at his computer clock. “Huh. So it is.”

“Oh my God. You don’t call for a month and then-I thought you were being murdered, asshole.”

“Ok,” Richie says, “…So it seems like maybe I should call back in the morning.”

“Fuck off. You already woke me up, just say whatever you were going to say.”

_Ah yes. The reason for calling. The practical, pragmatic reason that Richie totally has._

“…Were you actually asleep? Because you picked the phone up, like, instantly.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You can’t. Then I’d have to call the police. And it’s way too early in the morning to be calling people.”

Eddie gives a long-suffering sigh. “Are you getting to the point?”

He looks up at his blank computer screen.

“I, uh, thought I should include some of my newfound memories in my stand-up. But I’m still a little fuzzy. Do you remember our English teacher’s name? Grade 8?”

There’s such a long, annoyed pause that Richie thinks he might have hung up. Then Eddie says, “Mrs Dutton. You loved her.”

 _Shit_. He’d forgotten. He did love her. It didn’t start that way.

It started with Richie drawing all over Eddie’s arm in class, and Eddie complaining loudly about ink poisoning, but not moving. And then Richie made the mistake of looking up, and saw her smile at him with something that looked like knowing, and he froze, feeling cold air flush against his veins. And suddenly Eddie was yelling that his elbow looked like it got dipped in an inkwell. And she said “Could you keep it down, boys?” quite calmly, and Richie felt like he hated her.

She handed out an assignment, and Richie was determined not to take it seriously, because he was determined not to take her seriously.

So he was understandably shocked when it came back the next week with red ticks scattered across it like confetti.

He laid it on her desk after class. “Is this a joke?”

“The essay’s a joke,” she said. “And a good one. The mark is not. It takes talent to make people laugh, Richie.”

Richie just stared at her.

“Just think,” she said. “You managed that even with Eddie disrupting the class.”

And that was enough to propel Richie right back into a state of confusion. Something about Eddie _was_ deeply distracting, but, in all fairness, Richie was the one launching spitballs at him all lesson.

Her expression broke into a smile. “That was a joke. I’m not as good at them as you. I’m glad you’re having fun in class, but can you give him a little time to focus? You could both do well enough to go to a good uni. One far away from Derry, if you wanted.”

 _A good uni. Singular_ , he noted. _Like she just assumes they’re pack animals._

“Sure. Thanks , Miss D,”

“Anytime, Trashmouth,” she said, and smiled at him innocently, and if he weren’t already devoted to a certain Spaghetti-Man, he would propose right then and there.

“Rich? Did you fucking fall asleep on me?”

“You got it the wrong way round, dude,” Richie says. “Miss Dutton was in love with me.”

“Uh-huh,” says a deeply doubtful Eddie. “Listen, I need to-”

 _Don’t go,_ Richie stops himself from saying. “She let me draw on you, remember?”

“Do I remember my mother, convinced I had gotten a sleeve tattoo, having a breakdown?”

“Did she appreciate my artistry?”

“She thought your dragon was an eggplant.”

“That’s funny, because she thought my eggplant was-”

“-Rich. I don’t want to wake Myra. Is that all the info you needed?”

“Oh,” Richie says, feeling small “Yeah. I’ll um, talk to you later.”

And with that, Eddie hangs up.

And Richie decides it’s time to write. Or try to.

He doesn’t write about Mrs Dutton, or classes with Eddie. He might have outed himself on stage already, but that doesn’t mean he wants to play _Will America figure out I’m in love with Eddie before he does?_

But thinking about it, doodling on Eddie’s arm, it reminds him of Bill. The slightly better artist. His notebook had intricate watercolours of Beverly intercut with pages of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sketches. It never failed to make Richie laugh his ass off.

_Growing up,_ Richie writes, _my friend’s sketchbook was a perfect encapsulation of puberty…_


	2. Chapter 2

Richie feels a little guilty, using his stand-up as an excuse to call Eddie.

But he’s not being _entirely_ dishonest. So maybe he didn’t end up writing on anything they talked about last time, but he did _write_. For 2 hours.

Almost like Eddie’s his muse.

_God, he would fucking hate being called that._

“Hey,” Richie says, as soon as he picks up. “Do you remember your mother’s excuse for not letting you go to Stan’s bar mitzvah?”

Eddie sighs and says. “She thought there was an actual bar.”

“And you believed her!” Richie says gleefully.

“I _didn’t_ until you came over with a cruiser and said they were giving them out for free.”

“An open-bar mitzvah. Imagine.” Richie says, mostly to distract himself from the rest of that day’s memories, which are rapidly returning. It was the closest he’d come to telling Eddie. High on the feeling of rebellious solidarity. And a half-drunk vodka cruiser in his family’s fridge. There was something triumphant about them fighting back, and something tragic about the fact that they weren’t gonna make it. Adulthood would come for them, and Richie just wanted to say something before life split them apart.

He’d tried. “It’s true, you know,” he’d said, in a quiet moment. “The graffiti about me.”

“Yeah,” Eddie had said breezily. “I already knew you were a four-eyed virgin.”

Richie had laughed, breathy and strangled, and Eddie had looked at him funny, and that was the end of that.

Richie doesn’t want to write about that day, doesn’t want to think about the fact that he was braver at 13 than he was at 40.

But it does spark off other stories in his head.

He talks to Eddie for an hour. Afterwards, he goes to his computer, and writes:

_If there are any children watching this-firstly, your parents are pretty fucking chill, but secondly, a nugget of wisdom: convincing your friends that a bris is the same as a bar mitzvah is one of the greatest highs a human can experience. Your friends will not stay that gullible for long, so do it NOW. ‘Yeah, they chop your dick off while people dance to Milli Vanilli. It’s wild.’ It’s like, the highest level of intellectual superiority you can have over your friends without actually having to learn shit..._


	3. Chapter 3

Richie wakes up from a Bowers dream at 5 am, wanting to call Eddie.

He makes himself wait an hour.

Eddie still sounds tired when he answers the phone. "What is it?"

Richie pauses, without a plan. _Hey, remember we both used to get the shit beaten out of us? Anyway, it was fun reminiscing, talk to you later._

“I remembered your favourite ice cream flavours,” he says lamely. “Boysenberry and pistachio, right?”

He remembers wanting to lick the algae green off his sugar-sweetened lips.

There’s a pause. “Really?” asks Eddie. “You’re going to include that in your set?”

“Well. Yeah. It’s pretty funny. I mean, it’s a very pretentious order for a 13 year old.”

“Fuck off. Just cause you got fucking bubblegum. Let me guess, your coffee order is some three-tiered Starbucks monstrosity.”

“Oh yeah. What’s yours? Cold-press with hemp milk?”

There’s a second of silence. “…Cold brew has health benefits that-”

Richie’s laughter echoes down the line.

“Hey, fuck you man. At least I’ll still have my teeth at 60.”

“I’ll have gold dentures. So who’s really winning?”

“…I don’t even know how to respond to that, honestly.”

“What does Myra get?” Richie asks, because he’s a glutton for punishment, apparently. “One of those sprout smoothies?”

There’s a brief pause, then Eddie says. “She used to get a flat white.”

Richie feels his heart pump against glass ribs. “Used to?”

“I mean, she probably still does,” Eddie says, because _he’s such a dick about things._

“Eddie. Can you fucking clarify?”

“She’s moved out,” he says quietly.

Richie’s pretty sure a little confetti shower is happening in his soul. “Why the fuck weren’t we talking about that for the last 10 minutes?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says. “Seemed pretty fucking important that you get the low-down on my ice cream order.”

 _Are you mad at me?_ Richie wants to ask, but it doesn’t seem like the most vital question right now.

“Ok,” Richie says. “Ok. Did you-did you leave her? God, please tell me you were the one who left.”

“What does that mean? Why would it matter?”

“Because. It’s like me and your mother. One of us is punching above our weight. Literally.”

“You’re literally punching my mother?”

“Fuck. No, I meant-”

“I know what you meant. I just wanted to make you feel like a dick.”

“Goal achieved. But you’re avoiding the question. Which can only mean-”

“I left her. Happy?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, smile taking over his face. “Very. You?”

“Apart from the overwhelming fear that I’ve made a massively irresponsible, self-centred decision that’s going to leave me choking to death alone in my apartment at age 45? Sure.”

“Lucky for you, I know the Heimlich manoeuvre.”

“...Why is that lucky for me?”

“Um.” Richie says. “You could stay with me. Just for a bit. Or longer.”

There’s a stunned pause. “Richie. What the fuck? This isn’t a decision you should make over 30 seconds.”

“It’s not. I mean I always thought, hypothetically-,” Richie says automatically before realising it’s definitely not something he should admit out loud. “I mean. We planned on rooming at uni, right?”

There’s a long pause, then Eddie’s Responsible Adult voice says, “I think we both need to think about it. Let’s wait two weeks. If you still want to, ask me again.”

He sounds less annoyed than he’s sounded all month, and Richie feels the ache of the smile on his own lips. “Ok,” he says, scrambling for a pen. “Putting it in my calendar. Call Eddie in two weeks. I mean, I’m probably going to call you before then, but-”

“Rich. I'm going back to sleep.”

“Right. Cya, Eds.”

“Cya, Richie.”

Richie lies back on the bedspread, thrumming his fingers against the duvet.

He smiles up at the tarantula nesting on his ceiling.

“Oh, he’s gonna hate _you_.”


	4. Chapter 4

Things are less awkward with Eddie.

On the weekend, Richie calls with some dumb question about a teacher’s name, and Eddie ends up telling him about his day for an hour.

The problem is that as soon as things start getting _comfortable_ again, Richie lets his guard down.

“So,” Eddie says, pitch rising, “I tell him that he can’t wear a ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron to a work barbeque, it’s practically a harassment case waiting to happen, and he says, “You jealous, Kaspbrak?, and-”

“I like this guy,” Richie interrupts.

“Fuck _off_ , you do not, Richie, he has made my life a living hell. Anyway, I say, ‘I’d rather fuck a dead fish,” and that’s how _I_ got reported to HR for _his_ shittiness!”

Richie snorts. “Fuck, Eddie, I love you.”

He only realises what he’s said when the silence stretches on, a beat too long.

_Fuck._

It’s probably a better tactic to just carry on. Like Richie throws out big platonic _love yous_ all the time. But he feels thrown off, heart rattling, and he ends up trying to self-correct.

“I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” Eddie says, quickly. _And a little…angrily?_ “You don’t have to do this no homo shit now that you’re…”

“…gay?” Richie supplies.

“Out,” Eddie says. “You were always gay, dumbass.”

“Tell that to your mother.”

“Why? So she can say ‘I told you so’?

And Richie always suspected she knew, from the way she monitored him, but if Eddie knows, that means she _warned_ him, and-

“Sorry,” Eddie says, after a brief pause. “I don’t-I don’t know why I said that.”

“…You knew?” Richie asks. “When we were kids?”

“No. Not exactly. Um. She said all kinds of bullshit to stop me from hanging out with you. I thought it was more of that.”

“…What did she say?” Richie asks, already dreading the answer. “Specifically? What, that I was gonna give you AIDS, or-“

“Richie,” Eddie says softly, asking him to let it go.

But Richie can’t, he’s too stuck on remembering the taut silence from earlier that followed three little words, and says, “Did she think-” He lets out a slightly hysterical laugh, like the idea is ridiculous, “-did she think I was in love with you?” His voice breaks and he swallows it down.

There’s a taut silence. “Not exactly,” Eddie says eventually.

“Not _exactly_?”

“Anyway-” attempts Eddie.

“ _Not exactly._ ” He laughs again, something high and strained. “What, she thought I was going to seduce you? That my stick-figure anatomy would prove too tempting to resist?”

There’s a long silence that makes it very evident Richie hit the nail on the head.

“Oh my God.” he says, because really, what else is there to say?

“Does it matter?” Eddie says, growing tension evident. “It’s not like I took it seriously. She was just. Ignorant, and paranoid. She’d say anything to separate us.”

_Would it have separated us, Eddie?_

“Right.” he says dully.

“It wasn’t this big thing you’re making it out to be. She just. Hinted at it sometimes. Most of the time she stuck with ‘Richie’s dirty’ and ‘You’re gonna get beaten up if you hang around Richie’. You know,” he says, forcibly lightening the tone. “More verifiable excuses.”

Richie closes his eyes, takes a breath, and tries to get back into Default Richie Mode. “I’m blaming the beatings on Stan. He upped the nerd quotient of our entire group.”

“To be fair,” Eddie says. “I think I was going to get beaten up no matter who I hung out with. At least you tried to protect me.”

Richie settles the tips of his fingers against his heart, tries to settle the arrhythmic beat that’s been set there. This has been a rollercoaster of a conversation, and Richie’s never been great with motion sickness.

“You tried _._ Just what every guy wants to hear.”

“Hey,” Eddie says. “I’m not complaining. I didn’t do shit when you were in trouble.”

“I didn’t mind,” says Richie, because he didn’t really. Eddie was full of Fight, but Flight and Freeze were trained responses. And Richie wished he’d Fight when it came to his mother, and his pills, and his happiness, but when it came to Bowers-well, fighting didn’t garner much but a black eye and a fleeting moment of satisfaction, and Richie would gladly take both.

Besides, Eddie was always there after, with the disinfectant, and the bandages, and the long, distracting fingers.

“I did,” says Eddie, and it takes Richie a moment to catch up. “I’d tell myself that I’d stand up each time, and then I never did.”

“Probably for the best. You were like, the perfect size to fit in a trashcan.”

“…You know you make it incredibly difficult to apologise?”

“Then don’t,” Richie says. “You saved me from the Deadlights. Let’s call it even.”

“…Fine. Even.”

Richie misses so much about seeing Eddie in person. He misses his eyes, and the twitch of his nose and his arcing brows and the rough touch of his fingertips and the swift revenge his elbows could enact. But right now, most of all, he misses that he could stay and listen to the timbre of Eddie’s breaths long after the conversation had ended.

“I should probably get to bed,” Eddie says, right on cue.

“Sure,” Richie says. “Me too. Night, Eds.”

“Not my name. Goodnight, Richie.”

Richie hangs up, and breathes out.


	5. Chapter 5

Richie invites the Losers to the first showing of his new material.

It’ll be good, to have friendly faces in the crowd. For one thing, he’s a little less likely to be sued if he pukes on an audience member.

A little part of him also thinks that if him and Eddie see each other again in person, maybe he can cut through the little bubble of tension that comes and goes each time they talk. Hell, if Eddie stays at his place, maybe he can pull a _you’re practically living here already, you might as well move in._

The seven of them spend a long time catching up. First at dinner, then in the venue, a hall which is certainly _big_ , but a little run-down. As time runs down, Richie shows them to their seats and heads backstage. Eddie, who is in the middle of arguing with Richie about the safety of the stage lights, completely ignores all social cues, and follows him.

“Eddie,” Richie manages to get in eventually. “Not that I _don’t_ want to give you a backstage tour, but if you stay much longer, you’re definitely gonna miss out on the start of the show. And I know what a tragedy that would be for you.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and says, “90% of it is my material anyway.”

Richie looks at him. “Come again?”

“’Eddie, recount our entire high school experience to me, I can’t remember it properly.’ ‘Eddie, how many grey hairs did Mr Gleeson have, was it eight or five? It’s vital to the integrity of my stand-up, Eddie.’”

_Shit. Shit fuck shit fuck fuck fuck shit._

“The thing is,” Richie says, “…comedy is like, 90% editing.”

“Really? I thought your stand-up _was_ the cutting room floor.” 

When Richie’s silent, Eddie frowns and adds, “I know you’re not going to use every story.”

“Mm,” says Richie. “Or any of them. Because I decided to go in a different direction.”

Eddie stares at him. “…You called me for more details _yesterday_. And your show is tonight. When, exactly, did you decide this?”

_Oh, he is so fuuucked._

He inspects the mould on the ceiling. “Uh. A month ago?”

“A month ago,” Eddie says, voice darkening. “Like, after you first called me about it?”

“Sure,” says Richie, moving his gaze to the flies trapped in the light. “Or just before that.”

There is a long silence.

“Explain,” Eddie says, and his voice sounds about 2 octaves lower than usual. And Richie shouldn’t be able to enjoy that right now, given everything, but he definitely definitely is.

“I like talking to you.”

“Not an explanation. Try again.”

Richie swallows. “I liked having an excuse to talk to you. It seemed like you needed me to have an excuse. And then suddenly you were recapping all these moments I fanta-daydreamed about. And it was nice to know I wasn’t the only one who um. Idealised our friendship, growing up.”

_Idealised our friendship, Jesus Christ. He idealised their friendship all over his Spiderman duvet._

Eddie frowns. “I didn’t need you to have an excuse.”

“Um.” Richie heightens his pitch. “’Why are you calling, Richie? How long is this gonna take, Richie?’”

“Fuck off,” Eddie says. “I was annoyed. I-I killed a fucking clown for you, and then you only fucking call me for help with your stand-up. And I still fucking answer.”

“Oh,” says Richie, and then, because his brain has gone kind of pleasantly fuzzy, says “You didn’t kill it. Technically.”

And then, because Eddie looks like he might actually try to maul him, he adds, “Are you still going to be mad at me after the show? Or will you stay for a drink?”

“I’m always mad at you,” says Eddie, which is accurate, but not helpful.

A crew member tells Richie he needs to get a move on, before darting away.

Eddie’s mouth twists, before he pulls Richie into a tight hug, and says. “Break a leg.” Pauses contemplatively and adds, “Break everything.”

And Richie is certain that yes, he is staying for a drink.

He’s fucking wrong.

Richie’s riding a little bit of a high after the show, the pleasant surprise of _P_ _eople don’t hate my original material_ sinking in. Then the Losers meet him backstage, and Richie looks for Eddie, waiting to prompt him into a begrudging compliment or a searing insult, _he’d take either_ , but he’s not there.

The pathetic thing is that he doesn’t even have to ask. Beverly immediately jumps in with some bullshit about Eddie having an early flight tomorrow. And Richie immediately feels like a dick, so obviously projecting _The six of you aren’t enough._ So he puts on his biggest smile, and shouts them all a round of drinks, all the while wondering, _W_ _hat’d I do?_

Eddie takes his blazer and shoes off, grabs the stale, packaged cookie from the cupboard and rips into it without checking the ingredients.

He pulls down the tightly-fitted bedspread and slides underneath it without getting his blacklight out.

_I’m not angry anymore,_ he’s decided. It’s not like Richie was under any obligation to kiss him after Neibolt. Or after he got a divorce. Or to ask him to move in with anything other than his brand of aggressively platonic friendliness. Or to mention him, in his set, even after he mentioned every single other fucking Loser. Even after he mentioned the guy who worked at the arcade, and the diner staff, and the creepy fucking pharmacist who stared at Bev every time she walked through the goddamn door. Even after their conversation, when, for a second, Eddie had thought that _just maybe_ -anyway. He’s not fucking angry.

He realises he’s finished his cookie, already, and goes to forage in the minibar. Wonders what the rest of the Losers are drinking. And then he’s seeing Richie, beaming at the end of the show, buoyed by applause.

 _I’m not angry anymore_ , he thinks, sliding down the kitchen cabinet. Hugging his arms around his legs, dropping his head down, resenting the wet patches forming on his slacks. _And isn’t that a fucking indictment, that Richie wore jeans to his own fucking show, and Eddie showed up in the nicest suit he owns._

 _He doesn’t want you,_ he tells himself until he feels his heart being wrung out. He hopes it drips till it’s dry.


	6. Chapter 6

Richie’s not sulking. Eddie didn’t have to stay for drinks, or congratulate him, or make any sort of acknowledgement that Richie bared half his soul to the people of Los Angeles.

 _Richie’s_ going to be the one to text him because he’s the bigger person, in every sense of the word. Maybe not _every_ sense, because in Richie’s imagination Eddie’s always had-anyway. He’s going to text Eddie, because it’s been two days, and he’s the bigger person and maybe he misses him, a little.

 _You missed Bev doing a keg stand_ , Richie writes.

 _That never happened,_ Eddie texts back, leaving Richie a little gleeful at how quickly the response comes.

 _Maybe. Maybe not. You’ll never know_.

A few minutes pass before Richie receives a screenshot of a conversation with Ben that confirms that did not, in fact, happen.

 _They want to preserve their vanilla image_ , Richie writes. _Don’t buy it._

 _You think everyone without a MILF obsession is vanilla_ , Eddie responds. Richie can almost hear the scoff.

He grins as he types. _As Ben said in his marriage vows: you’ve got me pegged_.

 _How many conversations about our friends’ sex lives must we have, Richie?_

_Get a sex life and maybe we can talk about yours instead._

Eddie just responds with a middle finger gif that Richie could definitely squeeze another joke out of. But he does have _some_ self-preservation instincts, so he leaves it be, smiling down at his phone.

Besides, it’s not long before he reaches the day marked with bright yellow highlighter in his calendar, when he can call Eddie about moving in. And not long after that, he can tell Eddie his terrible jokes in person.

When the day comes, Richie waits until mid-afternoon to call. Just so they can both pretend he hasn’t been looking forward to this for weeks.

“Hey Eds,” he says, with a trained calmness.

“Hey Rich,” comes the voice from the other end of the line.

There’s a brief pause, wherein Richie realises that Eddie may not have had this day marked in his calendar.

“It’s been two weeks,” he says helpfully.

“Oh,” breathes Eddie. “Shit.”

Richie’s stomach swoops.

The voice travels hesitantly. “About that. I’ve been thinking. And. Talking to my therapist. And I don’t know that it’s such a good idea. I think-I think we might be on different pages. About where this is going.”

Richie lays the phone down, feeling suddenly, violently ill.

_Different pages. Different pages. Get me out of the fucking Mills & Boone novel in your head, Richie._

He tries to take a breath in through his tightening lungs and ends up gagging instead, reaching for the bin but leaving it empty.

 _Eddie didn’t sound angry,_ he tells himself over and over. He takes another breath. Still shaky, but easier this time.

The phone watches him.

Richie sighs. Picks it up with sweaty palms.

“-and I’m sorry, Rich.”

“Don’t be,” Richie croaks, guilty that Eddie’s the one apologising, grateful that Eddie isn’t asking him for an admission, or an explanation, because he doesn’t think he could manage either.

There’s a long silence. Eddie breaks it, eventually. “Um. We’re still-we’re good, right?”

“Course.” says Richie. Tries to take in a halting breath.

“Ok.” Eddie says, volume dwindling with every word. “Ok. Yeah. Good. Well, I’ll-I’ll let you go.”

He hangs up before Richie can respond. 

Richie turns onto his stomach, and tries to burrow into his mattress.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get (mildly) sexy in this chapter, if you want to skip that, stop reading after:  
> “Because you’re like, 3 feet tall. And if I climb into the driver’s seat we’re definitely going to crash this car.”

Richie truly resents his past self.

_It would be weirder not to come, he said. It’ll be good to see the Losers again, he said._

_Fuck that guy._

As soon as they’d arrived at the bar, everyone had exchanged hugs. Eddie had gone so stiff and uncomfortable in his arms that Richie immediately felt like a Weinstein, and sat as far away from him as humanly possible.

So he’s at the bar next to Mike, who’s telling Richie about all of the exploring he’s done, now that he’s out of Derry. And Richie is happy for him, he really is, but there’s only so many times he can say, _Yeah, I did know that spas were a real thing,_ and _I was, in fact, aware that the Chinese food in Derry was not fully authentic_ , without defocussing a little.

Across the bar, Beverly is saying something that’s making Eddie grin into his pink cocktail.

Richie aches to hear it.

But he settles for watching the way he laughs, dimples rising and falling like baking bread.

Then Eddie looks up at him. Grin dropping as soon as he meets Richie’s gaze, replaced by a tight Customer Service Smile. Even that falls away as he looks back down, fiddling with the straw in his drink.

And Richie feels like the creepiest person on Earth. Potentially universally. Aliens are probably better friends than he is. He makes a pledge to only focus on Mike.

“-mini golf. In a _bar_.” Mike puts an almost-sexy spin on the words, like he thinks the idea is a little scandalous.

“Wow.” Richie manages. “Imagine the smashed glass.”

“You’d think so!” Mike says. “But no. I think all the turf helps.”

“Be honest,” Richie says. “If Derry had a mini-golf bar, you’d be there for life, right?”

Mike snorts and shoves him. A gentle, half-hearted shove. Not one of Eddie’s shoves, that you actually have to brace yourself for to avoid faceplanting on the floor. _God,_ Richie misses the push.

“Not for all the mini-golf bars in all the world, Rich.”

Bill makes his way over from the dancefloor to slide into a seat by Mike. He glances at Richie. “This guy bothering you?”

“Always,” Mike responds, grinning at him.

Richie curses whoever told Bill he was handsome enough to make cheesy lines work. He curses them twice for being right.

Eddie could make cheesy lines work. But he’s fucking funny instead, in a way that just rolls of him. Richie’s pretty sure he doesn’t try at all, just says what he thinks, fuck everyone’s opinions of it. Fuck everyone’s opinions of him. And Richie admires that, in the way he admires people who get up at 6 am to go jogging, or build Habitats for Humanity. A _couldn’t be me_ kind of way.

And at that, he finds his eyes on Eddie, pledge thoroughly broken.

Eddie’s eyes widen. He glances away, a second before Richie, and it takes him a moment to realise, _oh. Eddie was already looking._

The thought shouldn’t make his heart beat hummingbird-fast, not when it’s been loudly spelled out for him that this thing is one-sided, but his body has always taken a second to catch up to his brain.

“I think I should probably head off,” he hears Eddie say, and Richie’s been searching his cider so intently that it takes him a second to realise he’s allowed to look, at that.

Bev protests slightly drunkenly, holding onto Eddie’s coat while Ben’s looks between them, stuck somewhere between apologetic and in-love. But Eddie makes his excuses and makes his way out, waving goodbyes at everyone along the way.

Richie sort of wishes he’d gotten in first. He wants to go home too.

But he gives it 5 minutes, just to make sure he won’t meet Eddie on his way to the taxi rank.

Turns out irony’s a bitch.

He deliberates whether he should ignore Eddie’s Sedan in the parking lot for a long minute. He decides, ultimately, that if Eddie’s broken down, he’d probably appreciate the help more than he’d hate seeing Richie, and makes his way over.

He stops as soon as he sees Eddie through the windscreen.

Head bowed, body concave, one hand over his eyes.

Richie feels like he’s swallowed tumbleweed.

He has no idea if he’s making the right call, but he knows he can’t _leave_ , so he raps lightly against the passenger window.

The way Eddie startles makes Richie feel like a peeping tom. He smears a sleeve under his eyes and reaches to unlock the car. _Or lock it, maybe._

Richie tries the handle, _unlocked,_ and sits in the passenger seat, staring at the glovebox. He hadn’t really thought beyond this point, whether he should dive into apologies, explanations-

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says quietly.

He looks at Eddie then, hands fidgeting in his lap. “ _I’m_ sorry. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

“ _I_ shouldn’t have come.” _This could go on all day_ , Richie thinks _._ Eddie pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down past his wrists, warming his fingers, the same way he did when he was 13. “I’m the one who fucked this up.”

“Eddie,” says Richie, pleadingly, because that’s the last thing he wants Eddie to feel. “You’re not the one who fucked this up. And you’re not the one who has to fix this up. You don’t owe people for loving you.”

Richie feels the atmosphere in the car change with Summer storm swiftness, without understanding _why_. Eddie’s head jerks towards him and he stares for a few seconds. “Richie. _What?_ ”

“I don’t want to become a second Myra. Or your mother. Someone you tiptoe around to preserve their feelings. You don’t owe me that. You didn’t owe any of them that, Eds.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, breathlessly. “What are you _talking_ about? You-you _love_ me?”

Richie feels each and every muscle tense at the surprise in his tone. But Eddie already _knows_ , has to know, or why has Richie been crying into his comforter for the last 3 weeks?

He looks at Eddie’s eyes, wide and glossy.

“You said-” he attempts, voice suddenly shaky. “You _said_ , we’re not on the same page. About where this is going.”

“Yeah,” Eddie’s pitch rises, “because I’m about a thousand pages ahead of you. I _told_ you.”

Richie chokes on air. “No-No, you fucking didn’t, I would’ve remembered that!”

“ _I_ remember it! I remember, because you _said_ it was ok, and then you fucked off and didn’t talk to me for two weeks.”

“…Oh,” Richie says, suddenly right back in the moment, stomach plunging and flying at the same time. “Oh. I think…”

“Richie,” Eddie says, picking up on the sheepishness in his tone. “What the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything, I just might’ve been…dry heaving. When you said that bit.”

Disgust makes a valiant effort to displace anger on Eddie’s face.

“I panicked! I thought you were calling me out, and I _panicked_ , and I…put the phone down, for a second.”

“Oh, well as long as you were _puking_ in the middle of my love confession, that’s fucking fine, then.” Eddie still sounds annoyed, but it sounds like he’s having to put effort into maintaining it, now.

“Love,” echoes Richie, mind clearing, leaving one vibrant thought behind. “You said ‘like’ before.”

Eddie frowns and bites his lip.

“Oh my God,” Richie says, suddenly light-headed. “You like me. You _love_ me.”

“You love _me_ ,” Eddie says, defensively. It’s like he only hears the words once they leave his mouth, smile unfurling a second later. He turns his head away, and Richie knows this game, Eddie hiding his smiles, but he’s not playing, not today.

He brings a hand up to Eddie’s cheek, clumsily turning him back. He can still feel tear tracks under his palm, as well as stubble grazing his fingers.

Eddie raises an eyebrow, like he’s waiting for Richie to kiss him, but Richie, with a brief flash of horror, realises he’s maxed out his capacity for courage. Despite everything, he half-believes Eddie’s going to run off, or dissolve at the touch of his lips. They’re going to be stuck like this, forever. _Fuck._

Eddie may be able to read minds, because he sighs, loudly before closing the distance between them, pressing his lips lightly against Richie’s.

He pulls back. He’s frowning a little, and Richie would ask _what the hell was so unsatisfactory about that_ if he didn’t think he was about to black out.

Then Eddie surges forward again, licking into Richie’s mouth, and Richie realises _oh. It just wasn’t enough,_ and the thought makes him grip the car seat until his knuckles ache. Richie barely remembers to reciprocate, licking the bow of Eddie’s lips like he’d seen-like he’d _watched_ Eddie do so many times, after contraband icecreams and dry summer winds and breathless rants. Tasting the mellow burn of Eddie’s sugar-soaked cocktail.

“Eddie,” Richie says, when the handbrake against his spleen becomes a little too painful. “Get over here.” He slides back down into his seat and motions towards his lap.

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Why do I have to be the one-”

“Because you’re like, 3 feet tall. And if I climb into the driver’s seat we’re definitely going to crash this car.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but doesn’t put up much of an argument before clambering over and slotting his knees outside Richie’s. Richie’s breaths sharpen as Eddie’s ass sinks onto his legs, knees pushing his thighs together. Casually, like he’s following some standard procedure, Eddie leaves bruises all over Richie’s neck. And all the blood not going to his head, or his dick, pulsates at each point Eddie laps at.

Richie’s already realised that inviting Eddie over here was an incredibly cruel form of self-sabotage. Then Eddie shuffles forward, just a little, and it becomes very clear that if Richie’s approaching the finish line, Eddie is a respectable contender for runner-up.

“Love you,” Eddie says, gruffly, like’s he’s still getting used to saying it, and Richie’s hips buck up, but Eddie doesn’t move away, just presses against him, wrapping his arms around his neck and nuzzling into his shoulder. That beckons a strangled sound from Richie, and he realises the situation is about to get Dire.

“Um. Maybe. Maybe we go back to our own seats? My thigh’s falling asleep.” he manages between kisses, Eddie shifting forward every time.

Eddie sighs. “Fine.” But as he pulls away, there’s this long _drag,_ and Richie pre-emptively squeezes his eyes shut, fingers digging into Eddie’s thigh in a futile attempt to make him _stop moving._

He hears Eddie’s voice distantly, dryly intoning, “Sit on me, don’t sit on me, sit-oh my God.”

Richie opens his eyes cautiously, but Eddie just looks kind of bemused. Best of all, he’s not moving off Richie’s lap to forage for handwipes.

“’Eddie,’” he says, in a subpar facsimile of teenage Richie. “’You know, your mum’s probably just tired because I kept her up _all night_.’ ‘Eds, do you know where to buy extra thick condoms? I need a more _durable_ material.’ ‘You know, Eduardo, they had to invent anti-Viagra for me, because my endurance level is off the ch-‘”

“Wow,” Richie says. “You know hearing everything I said in high school, repeated back to me. It’s made me realise. _You_ were fucking oblivious.”

“I wasn’t oblivious! You were obtuse. You wrote a set that specifically called out all of the Losers _and_ 15 of your Twitter followers without mentioning me once.”

“Aw, Eddie,” Richie says sympathetically. “That’s because if I start talking about you, I can’t fucking stop. I’d start a bit about how dedicated you are to destroying grocery displays-”

“The vegetables at the bottom of the pile are the cleanest, it’s not my fault if their displays don’t have structural integrity-”

“-And I’d end up being like, ‘Isn’t that adorable? I’m in love with him. I’ve never told him that, but I’d like to share it with the people of Brooklyn.”

Eddie smiles. “Better than most of your material.” His hands card through the hair at Richie’s neck, bringing Richie very swiftly back to the moment.

“Hey,” he says, resting a hand on Eddie’s thigh. “Do you want me to-”

“In a public car park? No thank you. I have class. Unlike some people.”

“Yeah.” Richie motions at Eddie sitting on him. “Real classy motherfucker.”

Eddie moves back to his seat, but Richie’s pretty sure the way he bounces on his knees first is not an accident.

The coppery red leeching into his mouth from his bitten-down lip brings Richie back to reality, where they’re both sitting in a car. _Cars are for driving places_ , Richie’s brain supplies, more helpful than it’s been for the last hour.

“So,” he starts, “when you said _not in a public car park-_ ”

Eddie’s hands tap on the steering wheel. “I think I want to take things a little slowly.”

“Ok, yeah, for sure, I can do slow.” He looks down and adds. “…In future. Sorry about-”

Eddie smiles, shaking his head a little. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t mind waiting?”

“Eds. My love life currently consists of jerking off in the shower twice a day. That _plus_ getting to kiss you occasionally? Sounds like the fucking dream.”

“Scratch that first part,” Eddie says. “If it’s not my hand, it’s cheating.”

Richie stares, doing some complicated mental arithmetic regarding a) his own endurance, and b) his ability to lie. Eddie takes about 3 seconds to crack, smile breaking out.

“ _Eddie_ ,” he admonishes. “You can’t do that to me. I’m in a vulnerable state! I’d agree to anything!”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Eddie says, still smiling. “But you can relax. I wouldn’t take away your one and only hobby.”

“It’s just that and drunken karaoke,” Richie agrees.

“…Ok, _that,_ I am gonna need you to give up.”

“Done,” Richie says immediately.

Eddie snorts, and when Richie looks over, there’s so much affection in his eyes that he has to clutch at the car seat again.


	8. Chapter 8

“You realise you can’t complain about me writing about you?” Richie says, handing Eddie his latest draft. “Since, y’know, the last time I left you out of my set you had a breakdown.”

“I did not _have a breakdown_ ,” Eddie says, kicking Richie under the dining table. He grabs the paper, and starts reading.

_So, I’m drawing dicks all over the arm of my crush, because, in my mind, that was ‘staying under the radar’. It was under the sleeve as well, you know, our little secret. I know, there’s a lot to unpack there._

_By the way, if you’re wondering whether I’m implying that all men who draw dicks are gay, the answer is no. Some of them are bi._

_Anyway, I’m Jackson Pollocking these dicks, and then Eddie turns to see what I’m doing and a look of pure rage comes over his face. But we’re in class, and he’s a goody-two-shoes, even though he’s a little psychopath, so he just quietly says, “Enjoy drawing while you still have hands, dickwad.’ No followup! Now, as children, all seven of us had almost been murdered a **bunch** of times, and that was still the most threatening thing I’d ever heard. Then he just grabs the pen and starts turning each of the dicks into extremely detailed tulips, like, immediately after threatening to lop my hands off, and I think that encapsulates everything you need to know about Eddie Kaspbrak._

“Flowers and violence? That’s my personality?” Eddie asks, but there’s a smile steadily making its way across his face.

“And dicks,” Richie says. “Did I mention the dicks?”

“Multiple times. You know there’s no way I’m letting your fans know my full name."

“Reggie Hacky-sack it is then.”

“I think Bill already used that in his last novel,” Eddie counters. Richie snorts.

“…Freddy, then. You look like a Freddy.”

“Ok, Bitchie Tozier,” Eddie says, like he thinks he’s the first person to come up with that.

Richie grins.

Now that Eddie’s moved in, he has _so fucking much_ new material.


End file.
